


from the grave

by KathrynShadow



Category: DC Extended Universe
Genre: Artificial Intelligence, Brainwashing, Cults, Gen, the Order is little bitches and you can tell them I said that
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-08-17
Updated: 2018-08-17
Packaged: 2019-06-28 03:48:32
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 944
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/15699537
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/KathrynShadow/pseuds/KathrynShadow
Summary: Jean-Paul can't quite remember the last time he saw the sun.





	from the grave

**Author's Note:**

  * For [Lord Vitya (ProtoDan)](https://archiveofourown.org/users/ProtoDan/gifts).



_then._

Jean-Paul can't quite remember the last time he saw the sun.

Azrael can, with brutal precision, recall every time they have stepped out of the compound, either with Jean-Paul or with any of the ones before him; but Azrael doesn't particularly care about the isolation. They never care what the world is, how it looks or feels, when they enter it: only how they will  _make_ it look when they leave.

They haven't left for (eleven) months (three days, twenty hours, seven minutes, forty-eight seconds... forty-nine... fifty...). Azrael has all of the knowledge of the Order, and Jean-Paul knows what they do; they aren't completely cut off from everything outside, just from interacting with it. It made sense at first, when the Superman had only just arrived and immediately plunged the world into panic about what to  _do_ about him, but there is a new status quo. The human race is not fundamentally changed by any of the things that happened since the Kryptonian invasion; they're just aware that there are things other than humans in the world, now.

And, when a false god makes itself known, what could be more necessary than an angel?

(Jean-Paul is of the personal opinion that, as long as Azrael needs him to perform their joint duties, it's probably better  _not_ to pit a slightly modified human body in an intelligent suit of armor against a man who can pulverize concrete with his bare hands. Azrael does not particularly appreciate this position.)

It isn't that the Order is exactly comfortable with Superman's existence, or the Amazon's, or anyone else that might become a new player on the field. They just don't tend to move quickly when the basic power balance gets messed around with, lest they find themselves finally—after surviving so many centuries—crushed into obsolescence. To a creature like the alien, Azrael might seem a threat if they were revealed; better to let some wayward brothers go free for the time being than to risk losing the pinnacle of their work to a stranger's misguided idea of justice. (And if the Suit themself was damaged, and not simply its bearer and the connection points wired into his nerves... They could have another Jean-Paul within a few years, if need be. Azrael would take far longer to repair, let alone to replace.)

Jean-Paul is not wearing the Suit of Sorrows when Superman falls. Through the residual machinery wound into him, he can feel the knowledge ripple through Azrael's coding; but he doesn't have immediate access to it without direct contact. He can't guess what's changed until his door slams open, shakes him out of his thoughts.

"Put the Suit on, boy," comes Nomoz's voice, harsh in the semi-darkness as Jean-Paul gets to his feet. "There's work to be done."

* * *

 

_now._

Azrael hadn't thought they would be needed to track down these ones. It's not an unfamiliar schism to the Order: the idea that they should be more active, that they should endeavor to shape the world to their will all at once instead of influencing it only where no one can see. It's rare that they try to kill  _themselves_ as well as others in their treachery, rarer still that they are secretive enough that they have a chance to try it.

(Perhaps, Jean-Paul thinks humorlessly, they were simply trying to save Azrael the trouble.)

The Amazon, the one who started becoming active again the same night Superman was killed, put a stop to these ones before they had a chance to do much more damage than kill a few security guards. (Jean-Paul wonders if she's planning on slotting into the Kryptonian's place for good, but Azrael doubts it. If she were that much like him, then she would have been more of a factor between 1917 and a few months ago.) She'd stopped them, which Jean-Paul is grateful for; and then she'd left them with the local authorities. The  _wrong_ authorities.

The alarms scream out a battle march as Azrael's ignited blade carves through the compound wall. Secrecy is less important than speed at the moment; it's difficult to tell whether the straight-line-through-the-building strategy is genuinely any faster or just born of Azrael's penchant for the dramatic, but Jean-Paul isn't there to question them. It is an efficient way to leave a message, after all.

If it is acceptable for Azrael to be known about, then they should be known for what they  _are._

Thirty seconds, and the first footsteps come thudding down the hallway. There is shouting; Jean-Paul understands the words, but Azrael doesn't care to listen, and Jean-Paul isn't the one who decides what they pay attention to. They both continue.

Forty-five seconds, and the guards attack. Jean-Paul expects a bullet, flinches as much in surprise as anything else when he hears the sound of tasers instead. One set of hooks goes wide, latching onto a segment of cloak; a second set strikes closer to true, latching onto the armor over Jean-Paul's ribs. The flesh is well-insulated, but a corner of Azrael's mind goes pixelated and staticky, and Jean-Paul swipes at the wires with a gauntlet blade just to get the  _itching_ out of his head. The smoking ends fall.

The Suit is bulletproof, but not perfectly so. They need to be  _faster._ Jean-Paul's jaw tenses.  _The lights,_ Azrael thinks, and then  _there;_ Jean-Paul moves to the side, jams his blade against the wall, twists it savagely sideways. The hallways splutter into darkness.

The circle he was cutting finally closes. He kicks the aperture open and dashes through, leaving sparks in his wake.

By the time the power is restored, they are gone.

 


End file.
